Mary's Story
by LisonNoa
Summary: This is Mary Morstan's Story. A first-person narrative. It takes place after Sherlock's 'death'. Involving John, Molly, Mrs Hudson, and most of the other characters. It is a simple story, about love, pain, longing, and friendship.
1. Chapter 1

I had nothing, nothing left to hang on to my own body, my envelope. He was gone, and with him all my plans, my hopes, my stupid dreams, and my laugh. I was not enough, once again, not enough to keep him, to make him happy, not strong enough.

And there I was, for the very first time, genuinely alone.

Therapy, sessions, pills… Nothing could help, because I did not want help. I wanted to feel. I needed the pain, the nightmares, the anger, the rage.  
But at the end of the day, I was still here, I chose to stay. Not that it didn't occur to me to go, to follow him… But, well, I chose my path, I stayed, I was not ready.

So, I simply did what I always do in a crisis: I ran. Well, more precisely, I packed all my stuff, most of his, sold the TV, our fridge, rented a van, and brought all our books to my grand-mother's house.

There, I had tea and a good cry, she asked me to stay for diner, to take a biscuit, I said I wasn't hungry and I had to go, anyway. But thank you, I love you, I'll see you soon, and take care of yourself.

I returned the van and went to my parents' place. Yes, now you think I am just a selfish kid. Not so alone after all. No, they are, as always, here for me. And they are amazing.

Look, I am not really expecting you to empathize with me. I mean, not so soon, we barely know each other, that would seem unfair. But I have to tell you. He was, everything to me, from best friend to lover. I adored him, he was my anchor, my guide. I know, cheesy, silly even, but whatever we had, it is gone, he ended it.

There. I sat on my bed, pulled myself together, and got started.

Résumés, letters, e-mails… I need two things: a job, and a roof. Oh, and a destination. I wanted people, many. I wanted chaos, and noise. But my finances being… what they were… I ruled out New York and Tokyo quite quickly. Paris was out of the question, I needed to get out of France. So… That left me with Berlin, London, or maybe Dublin. I am not a Latin person, and with my Master's degree in English lit', there was no way I was heading south.

So, there I was, sending bombarding all the schools with words, showing strangers how trustworthy, stable, and smart I was.

I forced myself to eat, to read, to sleep, to talk, and to go out in the sun.

On the next day, I started to look for a flat. That is when Berlin was crossed out. That city was fabulous, but I really did not feel like living in a huge flat, with parties every other night and piles of dishes rotting away in the sink.  
I was actually quite happy with the idea of putting miles of water between the continent and myself. Great Britain, here I come!

Flats in suburbs, no way. Five international students looking for a flatmate, nope. Over-expensive duplex near the City, haha.

After two more days, I got myself four interviews in Dublin and three in London… But still no place to live. That is when I decided to book a flight to London anyway. I would couchsurf, attend the interviews, and hope for the best. Five days later, if nothing worked, I would fly to Dublin and repeat the pattern.

London was a shock, as always. I stayed with an adorable couple, told blank lies about being "a little lost" and "needing to practice my English". I socialized enough not to attract attention, bought food and a bottle of nice wine, smiled and laughed.

It felt good. It felt normal. It felt like I was on the right path.

I went to all my interviews, one or two each day. And I started looking for a place to live. The five days went by so fast I almost forgot the pain, actually, I forgot everything. I just ran into the tube, caught buses, got the free news-papers and a red pen, and circled away, like in movies.

Within five days, I saw everything. Potheads, grannies, christian communities, hippies, goths, big flats, small ones, clean, filthy, cute, pink, austere, jungle-like… And on the fifth day, I found myself in Baker Street.

I had almost set my mind on the last place I had visited. Cute, near Camden, inhabited by a pretty punk-nerd girl named Iseult. But an ad caught my eye in the paper.

Man - 35 - Searching for tidy, intelligent, non-smoking flatmate.  
No journalist - Very serious.  
Call Mrs Hudson 7285 2012 - 221B Baker St.

I called. A very sweet, but obviously overwhelmed, lady told me to come around at 4:30 PM the very same day.

Baker street. Affordable? The place was probably awful, or the guy some kind of creep… Anyway, what could happen? It was worth checking. So, there I was, with my little folder and a bagel. As I walked, I started to see a small agitated crowd in front of what seemed to be 221B Baker Street.

As I approached, my headphones putting a soundtrack to this mess, I realized the people were… Journalists?

I almost walked away, but, well, that would have been quite odd coming from me. I got curious, as usual. They were all exited and asking tons of questions to the tall guy guarding the door. A guard? What was this place? I finished my bagel, brush of the crumbs and, with my headphones still on, worked my way up to the door.

My hair was hidden under my gray hat and my collar up to my nose… Which was good news because a lot of pictures were taken, and I probably looked like a ghost. I saw the tall guy was talking to me, so I finally turned the music down and got submerged by all the screaming and questioning.

"No one gets in Miss, unless you —"

"I have an appointment! Here is my I.D.", I cut him short, but he let me in after a long look at my card. I could not decipher a full sentence from the wave of words that had just crashed over me. I did hear 'did you know him?' and maybe the word 'suicide'… But that, my mind could have very easily made up.

I was inside. The shouting was muffled by the thick door, and I was… Alone.

A clock was ticking gently, and I could hear footsteps upstairs. The hall was dark, the good kind of darkness, soothing, peaceful. After a few seconds I realized I had my back flat against the door, I was leaning on it as if I was keeping the flow of people and voices to come inside. I pulled myself together and called out "hello?" My own voice sounded small and slightly too high-pitched.

I heard two voices upstairs, soon followed by the sound of the wood creaking under someone's footsteps. A very British lady appeared, she looked like a mouse, she was small, petite, and had piercing eyes.  
"Miss Morstan, is it?"  
"Yes, it's me. Mrs Hudson, I suppose?"  
She nodded while shacking my hand, led me upstairs, told me to sit in a cute little armchair, and left me there, muttering something about tea, and just a minute.


	2. Chapter 2

I took off my coat, put down my bag, and began my little visual inspection. Fire place, in use, mirror, old-fashioned wallpaper, a macbook, and a pile of books and newspapers on a desk, a couch, two armchairs, and books again, a lot of them.

I was about to walk to the window when a man appeared. I jumped, he gave me a surprised look and sat down on one of the two armchairs,_his _armchair, obviously. He looked tired… Exhausted even, and sad. So sad, I almost had to ask him, to touch his arm, or to give him a small gesture of affection. Instead, I simply sat down and tried to give him a kind smile.  
He did not know where to look and I tried to catch his eyes. Finally, he sighed, and stared at me.

"So, why are you here? Were you a fan? A hater? Are you a blogger? A journalist? What do you want?"

I was so taken aback I actually thought I was in the wrong place for a moment.

"I… erm… I'm just… Here for the room," was the only thing I managed to say. He looked at me and started to smile. I was so disoriented my face must have looked quite odd.

"Do you really _not_ know who I am?" He said that with such surprise I felt pretty stupid. I said something about not following the news that much in the last six to nine months, about being sorry. And that is when he started to question me. Age, nationality, studies, interests, love life, eating habits, I got the full background check. Mrs Hudson was coming back with some tea when he started talking about himself. He was a doctor, Doctor John H. Watson, have came back from Afghanistan and started living here with a flat-mate.

He showed me the room, which was perfect, just like the rest of the place. He left me alone to see everything for myself, and I heard him whisper with Mrs Hudson : "You have to tell her John!" "Tell her what, Mrs Hudson? She can read the paper." My curiosity turned into fascination; plus this flat was ideal, it was warm, cozy, Mrs Hudson looked sweet, and not invasive, the doctor had his own room on the third floor. I mean, there was a fire-place! And a skull on the mantel!

I strolled back into the living room with my cup of tea, and Mrs Hudson asked: "Why are you in London Miss Morstan?"  
"Well, my boyfriend died a few months ago, I needed some change, well, a lot… I needed a lot of change."  
I realized what I just said and was horrified. Mrs Hudson had her hand to her mouth, and Watson just stared at me.

He stared, as if he wanted to read something on my face, in my eyes.

"I'm sorry." We both said it at the same time. I looked at my feet, so angry at myself for blabbing like this.

After what seemed to be an eternity—it was probably just a few seconds, but plenty enough to hate myself and curse my words, he said: "You can have the room, but you should google me first."

I sat there for a few more seconds, finished my cup, put my coat back on, thanked Mrs Hudson for her hospitality. When I turned to Doctor Watson, he looked so calm and understanding I almost burst into tears. I had to look away. I heard him say "e-mail me when you know for sure." I nodded and smiled, he gave a reassuring squeeze to my shoulder while shaking my hand. It was enough.

When I came out the cold slapped me in the face, and the flow of journalists ran to me. Before I could put my headphones back on, I heard: "So, when are you moving in?" and "Did you know Mr Holmes person—", as I walked away and jumped in the first bus I saw, they faded away. I went back to my couchsurfing place, no one was home yet, I switched on my computer, and started to look.

For the first time in weeks, I tried to catch up with 'the world'. And I must have been blind, because the British news were full of him: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson's flatmate, who committed suicide nine months ago.

I read a dozen articles claiming to tell the 'Ultimate truth about Sherlock Holmes,' before I remembered why I hated the mass-media. This was horse-shit. No one knew, and yet they all felt the need to express their own twisted little opinion. I spent the rest of the evening thinking, wondering, and weighing up the pros and cons. My favorite couchsurfing couple came home, we cooked together, had a great 'Last Supper', and promised each other to keep in touch.

I went to my room around midnight and called Iseult. I apologized, the rent was cheaper, the situation was perfect, she understood. We will keep in touch and she will show me all the cool places in London. Then, I e-mailed John.

— So, when can I move in? —

A window popped on Gtalk and I read: "Now, if you like."

— So, tomorrow morning seems fine to you?  
— It's perfect. Did you read about… us?  
— I did. See you tomorrow John.

And this is how I happened to move in with John Watson.


	3. Chapter 3

I did not have much. A few books, clothes, my computer, and my tea ceremony bowl from Japan. I arrived early, could not sleep anyway. John was up, he helped me out with my bag, made breakfast, did not ask questions. We drank our coffee and talked about my future job. I got two calls the previous evening: one from a school, looking for a librarian, the second one from a bookshop, both about twenty minutes away from the flat, both part-time. I had no idea what to do. I asked for John's advice, who seemed quite happy to help out, and took off to the school an hour later.

A quiet job, in a noisy environment, that sounded good enough. Hopefully, I could be useful. I was looking for a purpose, I simply wanted to help, to share, to communicate some knowledge. I wanted to tease these kids' curiosity, to make them read. As I walked through the corridors I left a smile on my face. Maybe this was going a little fast for me, but that was good. Fast was nice. No need to over-think, no need to look back, just the path, unrolling ahead. Just time, unraveling as I put one foot in front of the other. I signed, smiled, shook hands, and assured that, yes, I will be there next Monday, at 8:00.

On my way home, I bought a book, a red blanket, some fruits and veggies, and a poster of Van Gogh's _Almond Blossom_. I found it completely my accident, in a second-hand book shop.

I hoped John would like it… Why did I care? I would probably put it in my room anyway… Well, when I got back, he was not home, and for some reason, I felt slightly disappointed, I cooked myself some rice and broccoli, and ate it while leafing through the morning paper. I almost chocked on my food when I reached page 5. The headline read : "Baker Street's New Girl" and a blurred portrait of my coat, hat, and headphones had been set right in the middle of the page. After a few seconds of blank stare, I started reading the article. "Mysterious girl", "Danish accent", "Doctor Watson's new girlfriend? sister?"; "Sherlock Holmes's relative"… They new nothing… I guess that was a good point.

Danish sister. Gosh.

I got a text from Iseult a few minutes later, asking me to meet her for coffee, and 'sflat whydidn'tyoutellme?  
— Will meet you at the coffee place near your uni, 3 P.M. Xx —

I washed my plate, set my brand new, deep red blanket on the black armchair that was apparently mine now, and started reading. When I left to meet my friend, John had not come back, I unrolled the Van Gogh print on the desk and put a note on it: "Do you like it? Bedroom or living-room? Love, Mary"

I found an over-exited Izzie at the coffee house. She had cut off all the articles she could found about me living at 221B Baker Street, and was going on and on about me being a target, putting myself in danger by living with this mad blogger-side-kick dude, and blah blah blah. Hum… Doctor Watson was a little odd, I had to admit, plus, I read he was some kind of war hero, and I had never been a big fan of the army in general… Anyway, I assured her I was safe there, and it was a great place to stay, it was beautiful, cheap, and nest of good stories it would seem!

After a moment we were laughing and talking about movies, books, and music; rewriting history, and dreaming of universal peace around paper-clips, empty mugs, and our phones. On my way home, still thinking of our plans to create a coffee-place-library-concert-hall, I got a text:

— One of my favorite paintings. Living-room it is. Are you going to be home for diner? JW —

As I hopped in the bus I smiled.

As I opened the door, I saw an agitated Mrs Hudson hurrying through the hallway. Her dress was quite adorable, so I told her, she stopped and smiled at me. She took my hand and said: "It is good to have you here Mary, the past few months have been so hard for him…" She was about to say more but her sentence faded away.

"Are you going out?" I asked, more to change the subject than out of curiosity. She froze and said, in a voice a little too high-pitched: "No! No no no, I'll be right back!" And then she laughed, a little too loud, a little long, and left.

I walked up, took my shoes off and dropped my bag on the couch. I smelt delicious, and my nose guided me to the kitchen where john was cutting some cabbage.

"Does Mrs Hudson have a boyfriend, John?" I said while grabbing a knife to help out. He jumped and stared at the knife, taking a step away from me.

"Oh! I did not mean to startle you! Thought you heard me!"  
"Mary! Well, no, I'm sorry. You took off your shoes, and the cabbage, and… I'm sorry."  
"Don't be, I'm the one threatening you with a knife here," I laughed.

We cooked and and talked, about Van Gogh, France, art, our favorite painters… Then we sat and ate, talked some more, about literature, my studies, my new job, British humor, and how delicious our cooking was. It was quite late when I put the kettle on and asked what he was doing now, any plans? Any projects?

"Oh, I work a few hours a week in a clinic… But other than that… I am… I am waiting."  
"You are waiting? Ok. And are you feeling alright, waiting?"  
"It's been keeping me busy, yes. Did you read the paper, Mary?"  
"Today's paper? Or…"  
He smiled and said "Danish sister, that was good, wasn't it?"  
"It was funny, and confirmed my thoughts about the media. I read many things about you John, and about your friend Mr Holmes, I don't know id they are true or not. If you want to talk about it, I'm all ears. If you don't, I'm all ears, too. I am young, I don't know much; but I have experienced loss, and you have been the only person I could express it to with the most simple words. My favorite person in the whole world is dead. I do not want to forget, I do not want to get over it. And I believe you can relate to that."

He simply sat there, nodding. It was obvious he could not talk right now, and neither could I. So, I stared at the Van Gogh print and finished my bowl of tea. I was a good king of silence. It felt right, it felt normal and appropriate. We did not say much more on that night, I left to read in my bedroom, deciding that I had to enjoy my last few days of freedom reading, sleeping, and walking aimlessly through the streets of London.

Day after day, I saw John. Sometime I'd wake up, he'd be making coffee, and I would just know he had been up all night. Sometimes he would be pacing around the living-room, others simply reading calmly… I liked him.  
We had most of our meals together, but we usually went on with our lives, texting each other where and when to eat. Mostly, we cooked, but he took me out to a couple a nice restaurant around our place. Nothing was awkward or weird, I was 25, he was ten or more years older than me, our relationship seemed quite clear: we were room-mates on their way to become friends.

One night, I was coming home from a party with Iz' and her friends, I admit I might have been quite tipsy… It was late, two, maybe three in the morning, I was trying not to make the wooden steps scream out, when I heard voices upstairs. John had never had a friend over before…

I arrived upstairs with my shoes in my hand to find a man, greyish hair, quite handsome, early forties, hands in pockets. They were in the middle of an animated conversation and John, who was in the kitchen, did not even hear me coming in, or at least that is what I deduced from his last sentence:

"Come on Greg, she is beautiful, but far to young for someone like me, I cannot poss — Oh, Mary. I didn't. I wasn't — Do you want a drink?"

I started giggling like a teen and took the glass of wine he was handing me. I went to my room, put down my bag, took one deep breath and came back. I introduced myself properly to Gregory Lestrade. Detective Inspector Lestrade, I had read his name next to John's and Sherlock Holmes's in many articles.  
Right.  
A cop.  
There was a cop drinking brandy in my living-room. I always felt uncomfortable around cops, not that I have anything to hide, really, but I had a few occasions to see for myself that cops were rarely where you needed them to be. Anyway, keep an open mind Mary, maybe this man is one of the good guys.

He was drinking his glass but yet, he looked like he was about to leave, he would not seat down. So, I invited him him to, he looked at me in surprise, as if it was the first time anyone had asked him such thing, but did sit down on the couch, with a smile. He and John were talking about a blog, conspiracy theorists, and what to believe or not. John kept on shaking his head, "you knew him, he wouldn't have made it all up", "it's Moriarty, it's impossible to kill an idea…" I stayed a little more, and listened… But I was exhausted, so I excused myself politely, drank two big glasses of water and hoped into bed. I heard voices for quite a long time after that, but I could hardly tell you if I was dreaming or not.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day was my last job-less day, John was not home when I got up, so I made myself tea and decided to read his blog. I had asked myself for days whether or not I should, but oh well, in was there, out in the open, for everyone to see, so why not me?

I skipped the new articles, went back all the way to his first post, and started reading. When John came back home, I was drinking my fiftieth cup of tea, still wearing panties, knee-high socks, and my poncho… Which would have been quite fine…

… If there had not been a young woman with him. I looked at them, I looked out the window, I looked at the time on my computer.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry! I didn't… I lost track of time! God, 7 P.M.! Just give me a minute."

I stormed out without another word, spending the next fifteen minutes showering, dressing, and cursing myself. By the the time I got back to the living-room they were both talking quietly.

"Mary, there you are! This is Molly, Molly, this is Mary." We shook hands as I sat next to her on the couch and apologized for earlier. She looked shy and mousy. And sad. She was quite pretty, in her strict, studious way. We decided to order Indian food, and I observed the two of them for a while, the must have been the same age, maybe Molly was slightly younger. She did not wear a ring, or anything, I thought maybe she was single, and I was positive, John was, too. Yet this was really not a date. The body language, the tone, the conversation… No, these two were friends, and it was quite obvious that the affection they had for each other, was a projection of the love they shared for a third person: Sherlock Holmes.

I had done my reading, and now I started to understand. The people I met in 221B Baker Street were believers. They all believed in Sherlock Holmes.

"So, what is the story, Mary? How did you come to live here?"  
"Oh, just an ad, I was looking for a nice, quiet, little place, I ended up here, it was packed with noisy journalists, so I thought it was the perfect spot!"  
She was laughing when John said: "About a hundred people applied, it was hell. Only about twenty of them got an appointment, but I chose Mary… She looks nice, and apparently had no clue who Sherlock was, is… was."

My mouth must have been hanging open, because John had a little laugh when he saw my face.

"I had no idea, John, why me?"  
"As I said, you seemed nice, agreeable, trustworthy, and genuinely excited about the flat." Turning to Molly, he added: "I think the first thing she did was checking the books and touching the skull."  
She smiled, but her eyes stayed sad. To break the silence, I said: "Well, I did catch up. I read your blog today."  
They both looked at me with expecting eyes, I had no idea what to say next. "Herm… Your writing is quite fascinating… And so are the stories… I mean, so is he."  
Molly's throat made a strange little noise, but John stayed focused on me.

"What do you think?"  
"Of the cases? Oh, they certainly seem impossible to fake, and I do love a good charismatic hero. I really want to believe you, John. That this man was for real. He seemed incredibly smart. But of course, I was not there… Well. I trust you. That is for sure. I think I trust you."  
"Thank you. It means a lot. Really. I cannot believe he is dead. I just can't. It's strange feeling. Something stuck in my guts."  
"That's why you keep his things? The violin, the books… the skull?"  
He nodded.  
"So I have to expect that, some day, a guy with a weird hat will come and claim his bed, that's right?"  
"Oh, he probably won't have the have the hat, but if an insensitive prick barges in, tells you everything about yourself, and sits in your armchair, it would probably be him, yes." He finished with a malicious smile.

They both told me a few stories about him and his inappropriate behaviors. We laughed a lot, it seemed to sooth them, to actually help, it felt good. I was in bed early, my head full of this peculiar character… I dreamt about doors, stairs, screams, and blood.

The screams must have been mine, because when I woke up, my throat was sore. John was in my room alarmed.

I was shaking like a leaf and covered in sweat, panicked, and sobbing. I could not seem to calm down, John was talking and I could not hear. I felt outside of my own body, I felt like I was going to die. I squeezed my arms around my body, hugging myself, trying to get a grip, to pull myself together.  
That is when he hugged me. And he held me for a long time, until my breathing slowed down, until my pulse went back to normal, and a little longer than that. I did feel him let go, but I was already drifting into calmer dreams, I felt the touch of my red blanket on my cheek, his hand in my hair, and then nothing.

When my alarm started singing in my ear at 7:00, I couldn't tell if it had been real or not. It is only when I entered the kitchen and found him cooking breakfast for me that I realized. It was true, he probably thought I was nuts. Full of embarrassment and hunger, I said: "John, I am sorry, I have these nightmares sometimes… I am just… Weak, guess. Sorry."  
"Breakfast is ready, you wouldn't want to go to school with an empty stomach, now, would you?"  
This man was simply too adorable, he was now my nurse and house-keeper… I apologized a dozen times and he ignored most of it, except when he sat down with me to eat and said:

"It's when you don't have nightmares anymore that something is really wrong. Fear is healthy Mary, as long as you do not let it devour you. You spent your days looking fine, I was starting to wonder if you were human!"

This of course, made my first day a lot easier, and the ones that followed. We talked more and more, about ourselves, about the ones we lost, about anything, everything, and I think we laughed a lot, too, from that day on.

My job was nice, some of the kids were so bright, so curious, I loved it. I even managed to befriend a few colleagues, and went on a date with 'the cute history teacher' after a few weeks. I was nice, but I was really not ready for anything more than 'diner and a movie'. Within three months I had a good group of friends around me… Had I gone through the toughest times ? No idea.  
But Christmas was coming, with its pretty light and its mood.

I was missing my parents, but I really did not want to cross the channel, so I asked them to come by for a few day in January. Iseult could not go to her parents', I invited her over, John asked Molly and Lestrade, I planned the meal with Mrs Hudson, half French, half Brit. It was all going quite smoothly.

A few days before Christmas Eve, I was doing some late shopping, desperate to find a great present John. What could me good enough? A print of his favorite painting? A book? A watch? A scarf? Socks…? God, this was hard. I was lost in my train of thoughts and I did not see a black car pulling over next to me.  
When I did notice, I started giggling, as I do, because clichés are funny. And laughing at a super fancy dark car, and imagining all the strange stuff that could happen in it is quite harmless… Or so I thought.

So there I was, giggling and walking away, when I realized the car was actually following me.  
Nope.  
No, it's not. It can't be.  
Mary. You're freaking out.  
Still following.  
Nah. You went through a rough patch, and now your mind is doing funny things.  
Still following.  
Ok, maybe it's a mistake, and anyway, what could happen? The street is crowded. I'm fine. I am fine.  
My phone rings.  
I stop. The car stops.  
Blocked number. I answer.  
"Get in the car."  
I freeze. The door opens.  
"Why?" I say flatly.  
"Miss Morstan, get in the car. This won't take long, and then we will drop you home, 221B Baker Street. Or you can run, and get arrested at the street corner because you stole that beautiful necklace from Tiffany & Co. a few minutes ago."  
"I… what now?"  
"Look. In your purse."  
And there is was, a small heart-shaped Tiffany pendant. I didn't even like that kind a jewels. The adrenaline rushed to my head, I jumped in the car, everything was spinning. I took the necklace out of my bag and threw it on the leather seat.

"Who are you? What do you want from me?"

A young man was sitting next to me, he was typing away on his phone, smiling gently.

"Can you actually hear me?"

He nodded quietly, and went back to his phone. I could not see the driver and we were going quite fast, but smoothly, through the streets.  
"So, where are you taking me?… Will there be tea? I really could use a cup of tea. God, I feel dizzy. You see, I'm a very anxious person, I have panic attacks and things like that."  
My heart was pounding and my hand were shaking as I reach my phone.  
Keep it together.  
9  
Breathe slowly.  
9  
Concentrate.  
9

"Don't."  
The man was looking at me as I pressed the call button.

No reception.  
Right is the middle of London.

"You've got to be kidding me."

He simply shrugged.

What could this be? Diplomatic thing? John? John's friends? Sherlock Holmes? The police? But why… Why?  
The car stopped, along with my rushing thoughts. We were in front of a house. A very pretty, very big, house. It suited the car perfectly. I started laughing nervously, I don't know why but I was expecting some abandoned building. The mute, handsome guy was walking me up to the door… And I was just laughing. It was that nervous, almost hysterical laugh one gets at a funeral or a scary doctor's appointment. What was happening to me? Was I going to die? Was I in any kind of danger? I tried to call John. No luck. I was supposed to meet him a few minutes ago anyway, he will be worried soon.

My quiet guard had taken me through quiet rooms, I was now left alone next to a fire place, with a cup of tea. No milk, no sugar, no talking. I started to text John, at least, I will get it when my phone has reception again.  
— Sorry, something rather unexpected came up. I hope I'll make it home. —  
It worked. I let out a sigh of relief.  
— For diner, or at all? Mary, you're worrying me, don't be cryptic. JW —

A tall, slim, and rather scary-looking man entered the room.  
"Texting our good Doctor Watson now, are we?"  
"Who are you? What do you want from me?"  
"I am a friend of one of your friends, that should make us, friends, I suppose." His smile was creeping me out. I sat down in a too neat, too new, too beige, armchair, and decided to wait. I got the silent treatment, that freak will get it too.  
My phone kept on bipping.

"So, how is John?"  
I raised an eyebrow at the man. What… What was this?  
"I simply thought I should introduce myself to you, I am Mycroft Holmes." He paused, waiting for the effect of this name on me. Sherlock's brother. Yes. I was surprised, and curious. He must have seen it on my face, because he gave me a satisfied smirk.  
"John and I… We've been through a rough patch. I just wanted some news."  
Now, that was too much, from what I gathered, the only man in this solar system John would be gay with, was a Holmes, but not this one.  
"Mister Holmes. You should call him. I need to go, now."  
"Very loyal. Very quickly. You two are cut from the same cloth it seems."  
I was already walking away; I stopped at the door and turned to him, looking right into his cold eyes, and said:  
"Sir, I am very sorry for your loss."


	5. Chapter 5

It took everything I had to get out of the house, and to walk around the corner of the block at a normal pace. After about one or two hundred meters, I just broke down and ran like a lunatic. I had no idea where I was and all I could think off, I screamed it in my phone.

"JOHN! HELP ME!"

My heart was pounding in my ears; I sat at a bus stop, shaking.

"Mary? Mary, can you hear me? Tell me, do you know where you are? Are you hurt?"  
"No, no I'm okay. I'm good. I'm sorry, I thought something bad was going to happen. They took me; they said they knew where I lived. Mycroft Holmes. He just scared the hell out of me. John, he wanted to hear about you! Why did that freak kidnap me?"  
"Mycroft."  
"Yes, Sherlock's bother, right?"

"John?"  
"Yes. You were at his house?"  
"Yes, yes, I am still close, posh neighborhood, huge houses…"  
"Get a cab home, can you do that? Are you alright?"  
"Yes. Yes, sure. I'll be fine. I'm sorry."  
"Don't be, I should be sorry, I've been dodging his calls for weeks. Mycroft is like a needy kid with tantrums."

I called a cab, and within thirty minutes or so, I was home. John was screaming into his phone, and Mrs Hudson was fussing around the teapot.  
"You! You heartless psychopath! Mycroft! All the good things passed on to him, and now he is GONE! You freak! If you need to talk to me, ask your chauffeur to drive you here next time. Instead of threatening an — Oh." He turned to me. "She is back. If you touch her again, Mycroft. I swear, I'll…" And he hug up.  
I was still confused, and seeing John like that was quite… Intimidating. I had the effect of a cold shower on me.

I was just standing there. With my tea. Looking at him.  
"I am sorry John… I wasn't in any kind of danger… I just. I was scared."  
My voice broke. "Sorry." So sorry. Sorry was all I was. I was safe, and I freaked out. "I always lose it. Gosh. I am a whiny child."

"Mary, he did it to me, too. The black car, the threats. And I was scared, too. Mycroft basically is the Government. And no one seems to worry about his lack of… humanity. I would not talk to him, because, to me, he has got his share of responsibilities in Sherlock's death. I can't help it; I blame him. I avoided his calls, but I suppose he did his research on you, and decided to see what you were like for himself. Come on now, take off your coat."

I still had my coat; my knuckles were white, tight around my bag full of presents. I freed the bag with a quiet laugh. "Christmas presents!…" And let myself fall in my armchair.  
"Oh, Mary, I bought a tree!" He did. There it was, all plump and cute. "Go put your things away, I'll get the decorations out."

I went to my room, and then to my bathroom. My eyes were red, my skin was transparent. I felt slightly pathetic.  
When I got back, Christmas songs were playing, and John was struggling with some garlands.  
"John?" I sat in front of the tree, holding out my hands for some stars or angels. "Is Mycroft gay?" He froze a second, and then started shaking with laughter. "I swear! I think he might fancy you!"  
"You know I'm not gay, right?"  
"That's quite obvious, my dear Doctor Watson." I answered with a wink. John loved women, that was, indeed, quite obvious. He could probably get whoever he wanted, but his heart was not really available. Too much sadness, too much pain…

The rest of the evening passed with a nice meal, Christmas stories, grandiose imitations of Mycroft Holmes, and a fabulous story about Sherlock being almost naked in Buckingham Palace and stealing an ashtray!

I ended up meeting Mycroft again, on Christmas Eve. John had insisted upon inviting, I think he felt obligated… It must be the carer in him, the doctor. Mycroft was just like that annoying uncle, the one always grumbling about the food, the traditions… It completely desacralized his frightening image for me, which was good.  
Iseult was glad to be here, and Molly, after a few glasses of white wine, seemed quite at ease as well. Mrs Hudson was ecstatic, and the food was, of course, amazing. Lestrade and John were talking about politics and the image of the police force in Britain, it was obvious Greg was trying to impress Molly. Mycroft did not say much, but was, at the end of the day, quite comfortable and not out of place at all around our little table.

The mood was light but nostalgic. And I was starting to miss him. How do you miss someone you have never met?  
The look in John's eyes… No one would ever fill up the hollowness Sherlock's death had left in it.  
Everyone around this table were there because of him. Even me, Even Iz'. His absence was almost tangible, one could almost feel him, hear his laugh.  
Well… That was a little insane, I told myself. I shook off the idea and realized John was looking at me. looking at me as if he could read my thoughts. I gave him a smile, and got up to get dessert.  
Such a strange feeling that was, so peculiar, as if I could see him at the corner of my eyes.  
I thought I heard something. In my room.  
Couldn't be.  
I ran anyway.  
Nothing, of course.

John was standing behind me.  
"What is it Mary?"  
"Did you hear something, too?"  
"Just you running to your room…"  
"I thought… Don't worry about it. Let's go and cut the cake."  
He took my shoulder and walked me to the kitchen.  
"You are quite a strange little person, you know that? I'm really glad you're here, Mary. Merry Christmas."  
"Merry Christmas, John. Thank you for taking care of me."  
"No, you, you are taking care of me. I didn't realize how much I needed it…"

"Miiiidnight!"  
Slightly inebriated Iz' and Molly were jumping around and dancing their way to the presents.

We brought dessert on the table, I popped open a bottle of champagne and served everyone. The girls were thrilled by the presents I got them. Classic pearls for Mes Hudson, a simple silver locket and a pair of hearings for Molly, and a crazy, eccentric pair of stockings, and a set of cute rings I found in Camden, for Iseult.  
I had my dad send me a few, very nice, bottles of French wine for Greg and Mycroft. And my dear John got a gray sweater to add to his collection, and very, very old, very beautiful edition of Keats' _Hyperion_. As I hugged him, I whispered: "I kept some good Bordeaux for you as well, but I thought it might have been too much." He laughed and hugged me some more.

I was giving away all my gifts, and I did not even realize the pile of things with my name on them. The first one, to amazement, was from Mycroft. It was a beautiful locket, it had the shape of an anatomical heart, it opened, there was a very small note inside it that read: "Please accept my deepest apologies - MH"  
I was so amazed I just stared at it, at him, at it, and at him again. Thank God Iz' broke the silence: "Jesus, Mr Holmes! All our presents are going to look so bad now!"

Of course they did not, Molly and Mrs Hudson got me a Kindle, and Iseult a gorgeous dress, so strict and sexy. I ran off to my room to try it on.

"Yes! Now you're a real librarian!"  
"Iz'! I work with kids!"  
"No, you work with teens, darling, and that's why I got you this. You look gorgeous."  
Molly was nodding and Mrs hudson was fussing around, putting my hair up and straightening the fabric. "Beautiful, you are lady, Miss Morstan!"  
Mycroft had his nose in his glass of brandy, and Lestrade was… Gawking. John 'accidentally' walked on his foot while giving him an insistent, and scary, look. I looked at Iz', who caught it all as well, we cracked up laughing and she declared the dress seemed to be doing a fine job!

I was about to go back to my glass of champagne when John handed me something, it was quite small, wrapped in craft paper, I looked at him in awe, he answered with a lifted eyebrow and a smile. I opened the present carefully, everyone was concentrating on their own things, trying on jumpers, hats, and jewels.  
"I've had it in my room for a while, but giving it to you for your birthday would have made my other present quite lame…"  
My birthday was on the 20th of December, and John had gotten me a deep-red cape, so gorgeous I almost cried when I saw it. I actually thought he would not offer me anything for Christmas since that present probably cost him a fortune. How could this small parcel be so much better than that?

The wrapping was coming off, and I could see the title. _Capitale de la Douleur_ - Paul Eluard. A 1930 copy, with original ex-libris by Chagall and Picasso. As I leafed through it, I felt the tears collecting in my eyes. I kept caressing the pages, the binding, smelling it, touching it. I just could not believe it.

"How… How on earth did you put your hands on such a thing, John?"  
"Some people owe me."

He was sitting next to me on the couch, I put my head on his shoulder, he put his head against mine and took my hand. Molly put some Carly Comando and the piano notes were dancing like snowflakes around the room. Everyone was dozing off, chatting quietly and sighing in satisfaction. Mrs Hudson was the first to go to bed, then Mycroft called his chauffeur and gave the girls a lift home, Greg took his own car. Everyone seemed happy.  
It had been a great Christmas night.

John and I were left alone in the living-room, it was snowing outside and the silence made me blue…

I did not want to live without you. To me, good was better than perfect. I only wanted to help you. I loved you. I love you so much, so hard. Not enough.

You are still here, your voice, the light playing with your hair in the morning, your smell. I can still hear you, feel your touch. You are like a dream hard to remember, impossible to grasp. But so, so overwhelming.  
You are under my nails, stuck in my eyelashes. It is as if I could not breathe freely, never deeply enough. Something is always missing, that one last gulp of air in my lungs, that one heart-beat.  
Not enough, and yet too much. Just I can survive, but not live, not yet. The pain. It holds me together. Yet. I am still. Falling. In love. All around you. All around the idea of you, all around the shadow of your existence. It is tearing my insides appart, crushing me inside.

The taste of my tears pull me out of my thoughts, John is right here, stroking my face, wiping the tears away. The light, the small, timid, candid, shivering flame.  
"Oh, you don't have to," I say, "I need to say goodbye. I just… crave for the pain… so masochistic."  
"This is going to sound insane, but seeing your pain, and more than that, seeing you getting better, witnessing that, despite everything, you manage to smile and keep going; it helps. I helps so much. So, every now and then, I am here for you. I hold you. I can show you that I care. Now and then, I can show myself that I care. You see, 'now and then' means everything to me right now."

"Merry Christmas, John."

"Merry Christmas to you, Mary."


	6. Chapter 6

I held his hand some more, the snow had stopped falling. Everything was white and quiet outside. I kissed his cheek and went to my room, taking the gorgeous book with me. I looked for my phone to check if Molly and Iseult had gotten home ok… Couldn't find it. Bed. Bag. Coat. Pants. Desk. Bathroom. Nothing.  
I went back to the living room, looking around and asking, "John? Could you call my phone, please? I can't seem to find it."

We went back to my room, and he tried… "It should be ringing now."  
I was.  
On my window sill.  
"Oh, thank you, sorry… I really could swear I did not leave it there. I never do." I walked to the window and checked it. Open.  
"Mary, you said you heard something, earlier."  
"Yes, but…"  
"Check if nothing is missing. Purse, jewelery, anything. Go, now."

There is was. Soldier Watson. The order was sharp. I found myself hurrying around looking in every box, every drawer.  
"John, the only valuable things in this room are my computer, and the book you just gave me. Nothing has moved."  
"Your window was open, your phone in the wrong spot, someone was here."  
"I could hav—" The look he gave me cut me short. I could not tell, was he concerned about my safety? Or just hoping for something like this to happen? For anything to happen? Then again, maybe he did not know himself. So, I simply decided to obey. Deep down I agreed with him. Someone had been here, had checked my phone, my things, and had left.. But it was insane, and fixating on it would make me paranoid; I tried to push the thought away.

John started to sleep in the living-room, I knew he was, even-though he always woke up before I did. He was never annoying, but he always ended up questioning me on where I was going, with whom… I really did not mind, it was caring, not creepy. And days went by, and then weeks, and as he went back upstairs to sleep, spring arrived, all crisp and pretty, and then, of course, summer.

I spent most of it back in France, reading in my parents' garden, helping them out, walking, sunbathing. John spent a couple of weeks with us and we went to Paris together for four days before crossing the channel again. Museums, exhibits, food, book shops… Well, we basically just wandered around and talked a lot.

"What to you mean you've never been to Stonehenge?"  
"I have, never, been to Stonehenge."  
"Jesus, Mary."  
And I did not quite understand what happened next. Twenty-four hours later, we were renting a car in Portsmouth. After a pic-nick on the mythical grounds, a lot of pictures, and a creamy coffee, we took a train to London. Vacations were over, I was quite thrilled to read the golden numbers on the door. 221B. Home.

Mrs Hudson was glad to see us again as well. I went out with Iz' and a few friends that night. Summer said good-bye, and Fall moved in at the end of September. Without even noticing, I had been living with John for a year. I was happy, as usual, so see the leaves changing. I was happy to put on tights and dark skirts again. Fall is my season.

I went back to my high school librarian job and started studying History of arts at the University of London. My relationship with John was starting to look like a deep friendship; we shared the pain, the joy, we shared the loneliness. I was probably abusing his friendship… Or maybe I was not. Sex was out of the question with anyone, and John was older than me, and damaged… But then again, life had to go on.  
Whatever that meant.

The days got shorter, and yet, my agenda was full, October went by in a blur of exhibitions, parties, and classes. I often got home late, and would find my things slightly out of place. First, I did not really mind, but one day, at the end of November, I found my diary left open on my bed.  
That was it.  
"John! Please!"  
I stormed out of my room and ran into the living room. He was reading of book about criminology or something. He raised an eyebrow at me.  
"John, I think we have to talk about personal space, you know, what is yours and what is NOT?"  
He frowned and closed his book, calmly, and planted his eyes into mine, asking: "What's wrong?"  
"What is wrong is that you seem to have been reading my diary. I don't really mind you going into my room, I've got nothing to hide, but that's just too much. It's very personal…" As I said this I realized all the things I wrote in there. Dreams, fantasies of all sorts, bad poetry, inebriated thoughts… And things, just… Things about him! Things that just crossed my mind, for a few minutes, not even considering them seriously. I mean, not really. Or maybe I did. I don't know. I just… "Look, it's embarrassing. Just…"

Shame, disappointment, anger, pain, feelings I could not even process.

He stood up, still looking right at me, he took the diary from my hands, closed it, secured the red rubber-band around it, and put it back in my hand.  
"Mary," he said, very slowly, and with a tone so serious, so low, so powerful, I think I stopped breathing. "I did not, and never would, read your diary, or go through your things. I would never do this to you."  
"Then… Then who? It was open, on my bed. I left it in the drawer, I swear I did." My voice was small and shaky. "I swear, I'm sure someone went in my room, more than once."  
"Then someone else has been here." He said, blankly. He was not mad at me, nor did he question me.  
"Do you mean some kind a sick freak is going through my things, and, like… Smelling my panties or something?"

The information were actually starting to sink in that snail-brain of mine.

"I'll text Mycroft first, you never know."  
"Maybe… Maybe it's just Mrs Hudson?"  
He shook his head. "No, she only dusts and cleans up a little in the living room, and she hardly ever does it now Sherlock's not… not around. Anymore." He trailed away, and then looked up, frozen.  
"J-John?"  
He waved the thought away with his hand, a sad smile on his face.  
"What is it?"  
"I've met only three people who could do this, and they are all dead. As far as I know anyway." He said.  
I frowned.  
"Irene Adler, closest thing to a 'girlfriend' Sherlock's ever had. James Moriarty, you know this one. And Sherlock himself, of course."  
"Of course? John, even if this was possible. There is nothing to see in my room!"  
"Nostalgia, information, they could even do this out of boredom."  
"But…"  
"But they are dead. Yes."  
"John… I read your article about her, The Woman, Mrs Adler. You said she faked it, her death, you said it was very realistic… Could… I mean, I wouldn't want to feed in any hope or anything… But…"  
"I think about it a lot. But, I saw him. I saw him fall. He made me watch. I have played it, over, over, and over again, in my head. It seems completely impossible. But, then again… So was he." He paused and looked at me. "Are you scared?"

That last bit took me by surprise. Was I? Curious, angry, stressed out, excited, yes. But I was definitely not scared. "No."  
So maybe a ghost was lurking in my diary. John was certainly too down to earth to believe in spirits, and even if I, for one, believed in many things, it seemed very unlikely… No… Not here. So maybe an evil psychopath was going through my things, or a crazy dominatrix. Or, and I could see in John's eyes that was what he hoped for, it was an undead, highly-functioning sociopath, who was simply curious about me, and his bedroom. Going, "Oh, I like was you've done with the place, let's read about your personal thoughts, in your diary. Who keeps a diary anyway? If ont someone who wants to be read?" and "Not very inspired", "

Gosh, even imagining his comments was annoying; John cut off my thoughts: "How about we invite Molly over for diner tonight?"  
"Yes, sure, and ask her if Sherlock's body walked away?"  
"Something of the sort, yes."  
"You are not seriously going to do this, now, are you?"  
"I've been protecting Molly for months, because I thought she was too fragile, but, well, Molly works with death every day."  
"Fine then. I'll cook chicken, with coco and curry."  
John was texting her, with a crooked smile on his face, I could see it then, the seducer he could be when he wanted to…

I put the little notebook I call a diary back in my room and found my phone with a few messages on it. Iz's friend, a cute guy I had met a few days back, obviously got his hands on my number. He was a sociology major who recently migrated here from somewhere in the Caribbeans. It was nice to speak a little French with someone, plus, he was really handsome. We got back in the same cab a few nights before, and he was texting me that he was in Baker street, studying in a café. — Take a book and join me, your chai latte is on me, cute hipster! Xx, Jimmy. —

Why not? I did have plenty of time before diner. I took a few things, notes, books, paper… "John, I'm going out for a couple of hours, do you need anything?"  
"No, thanks, say hello to Iseult for me!"  
"Oh, I'm not… Seeing Iz'." Why did I say this?  
"Oh, sorry then."  
"No, I'm meeting a guy I met last…" Why was I talking? Oh, Mary, shut up! "… at a party… The… Well…"  
"Erhm, yes, sure. Okay."

Oh this was awkward. I'm so awkward. Why was it awkward? Was it just me? No. It was definitely weird. I squeezed my eyes shut and turned around.  
"I'll see you soon, then!"  
"Yes, if you need anything, I'm here for you, Mary… I mean, I'm available. I mean, just call, yeah?"  
"Alright… John. Bye!"  
I almost ran out. What. Just. Happened? Why couldn't I just shut up? "Say hi to Iseult for me" "Yes, okay, bye!" Why did I have to go and tell him I had a date? Which I don't!

I was so lost in my stupid little _esprit de l'escalier_I almost missed the coffee place. There was Jimmy, tall, hipsterish, cute beard, warm smile, and his dark eyes looking right into mine. "Salut toi ! Assieds-toi, je t'en prie."  
"Hey ! Ca me fait tout bizarre de parler français ici. Tu vas bien?"  
"Maintenant que je suis si bien accompagné, tout va bien."  
The Caribbean way, I laughed, he bought me a chai, as promised, and we talked quite a lot. About life, death, religion, and spirituality. It was strange, in contrast with John's way of rationalizing everything. We talked about esoterism, and magic, and oddities. He was warm, funny and beautiful. He obviously liked me, but never went over the limits.  
My mind was racing. Calm down, whatever should happen, will. Calm. Down.

Around 4:30, I left, told him I had to cook for tonight, and that, yes we will do this again, soon. On my way home, I left smiling and walking lightly, this was nice. Very nice indeed. I bought a cake at the bakery, picked up some fruits and milk…  
John was on his computer when I got back, obviously deep into his thoughts. As I walked to the kitchen I took a peek. The page he was staring at was full of gross images and small text.  
"Charming!" I chanted, putting my chin on his shoulder. "Are we looking for a way to diet, because that would help anyone losing their appetite for about a month!"  
He smile and titled his head on the side, putting it against mine.  
"Yes, you're right, it's quite disgusting." He shut his lap top, I stood up, "So, the chicken!"  
"Yep! Let me put those away, I got milk!"  
"You get milk, you don't shoot walls when you're bored, you simply are the perfect flatmate my dear!"  
"Well, I'm French, I scream at night, and I have a few issues to compensate all this perfection."  
He smile and handed me the rice, "so, how was your date?"  
"Oh… I…"  
"Sorry, too forward, you don't have too…"  
"No, it's fine! It was nice, he is very nice, his name is James, well, Jimmy, he is a sociolog—"  
"The name is what?"  
"Jimmy. Why?"  
"What's he like?"  
"John, there are thousands of James in London. He is from the Caribbeans, he—"  
"So, he is black?"  
"Errhm. Yes, John, he is. God what's wrong with you? Is that a problem?"  
"Oh, no, no! It's just… Moriarty."  
I froze.  
"John, for fuck's sake, I am not dating Moriarty!"  
"I know, Mary, I—"  
I grabbed his shoulders and planted myself right in front of him. "I read your blog, I went through your newspaper cuts, I talked with Molly, I know. I know what he looks like. And he. Is. Dead. I know you only trust Sherlock Holmes, but please, please make an effort. I am no genius, I definitely am not _Him_, and I am sorry, because I wish I could be. But please trust me. I am careful, I take care of myself."  
I let go of him, and sighed, getting back to my rice and spices.  
"He is nice, but it was just coffee, you know."  
"I am such a freak."  
"Yep."  
"But then again, you chose to live here."  
"Yep. And I got milk."  
"Indeed."  
"John?"  
"Mary?"  
"You think he is alive, don't you?"  
"Yes, I do…"  
"But why would he do this to you?"  
"To protect me maybe, or Mrs Hudson… He must have a good reason. I just hate that he did not tell me. That he chose to do this alone. If he did, that is."  
"You'd kick the shit out of him if he just showed up, right?"  
"If he acted like a complete tool, which he probably would, yes, I believe I would."  
"But protect you from what? Moriarty?"  
"Yes, I suppose so."  
"But he is supposed to be dead as well."  
"Yes, but nothing would surprise me coming from him, he is not even a man."  
"Wish I could hope, too. Sometimes."  
"Why did he do it?"  
"He was hopeless, unhappy, unlucky, and my love was not enough, to keep the balance… Sorry."  
"No, no, don't. Talk, if you need to, I'm here to listen."  
"I believe some souls are younger than others, he was always looking at his life from an outsider's point of view. He was bored and sad. He was a young clueless soul. He had it all, but he could not manage to sort it all out. I think I might have done it to protect me, too. I'm just starting to see that now. Or maybe I simply need and excuse, to go on, on my own path. I loved him deeply, as a lover, and as a friend, the best friend I ever had. Such a fragile thing. But we are all fragile things I think."  
"Fragile, and broken, yes we are."


End file.
